


Day 510

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Calendar of Regrets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John, But he still has a glimmer of hope that Sherlock will return, Drinking to Cope, F/M, John Has Issues, John Misses Sherlock, M/M, Missing Scene, One Night Stands, POV John Watson, Pining John, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Trying to move on, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene set during Sherlock's two-year absence -- day 510, to be exact. John is trying to get on with life, but nothing can fill the void Sherlock left behind. Still, he hopes for one more miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 510

John woke up on the sofa, his mouth cottony, his head groggy, his neck aching. He pried open his eyes, saw the bottle of scotch on the table, left uncapped, the glass empty beside it.

Shit. He really shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night. He checked his watch, taking several attempts to focus on the hands. Nearly 8 in the morning. He rubbed his forehead. He had to work at the clinic in three hours. He lay unmoving, only the persistent brightness of the sun keeping him from falling back asleep.

He sighed, then groaned as he finally sat up, rubbing his hands over his face to try to stimulate some life back into his body. He rose unsteadily to his feet, then made his way to the bathroom where he gulped a glass of water before stepping into a bracingly cold shower.

The blue striped dressing gown. A shave while contemplating a moustache for a needed change. Coffee and toast. More water and something fizzy for his headache. He stared at the flickering shadows the tree outside the window cast onto the living room wall. Strange how he still missed the case wall at Baker Street, notes and photos and maps pinned up according to some mad system. Strange how this flat still felt empty and sterile even after living here for more than a year. It was an anonymous flat for a flat, anonymous man, John thought ruefully.

It had taken months to settle into some semblance of routine following Sherlock’s death. It was what everyone recommended, wasn’t it? Keep yourself busy, work will take your mind off of it, a new place will be a fresh start… Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, his therapist had all gone through the platitudes that he himself no doubt had uselessly doled out to some suffering acquaintance once upon a time.

So he moved away from Baker Street. He worked regular hours. He’d taken up running. He read. He went out for a drink occasionally with Stamford or Lestrade. He drank more alone at home. He’d gone out a few times with a few different women, always found a reason to break it off after a night of relentless fucking. Oh, how they hated him for that. He’d offer a half-hearted apology, willingly take the blame, admit he was in the wrong, say he wasn’t ready for any kind of commitment. Sorry. And leave. It was the truth and so simple, really.

What wasn’t simple was walking down the street, sitting in the tube, jogging by the river and seeing fragments of a ghost flash by -- the swirl of a long coat, the cut of slim shoulders in a dark tailored suit, curls on the nape of a pale neck. It was always out of the corner of his eye, always a fresh stab in the heart that kept him bleeding internally, interminably.

Just once there had been a man, predictably tall, slender, dark haired... He was in London for a medical conference, had lost his bearings after taking a walk, had stopped John to ask for directions. He was funny, charming, and soon worked past John’s reticence by offering to buy him a pint. They chatted about the conference, their work, the beer, then around to families. They were both unattached.

After several drinks, John felt a hand brush against his knee. He let his leg press back, and he let himself pretend for a few hours that it was somebody else, that he had unspooled time, and the mouth he later sought and the hair he twined his fingers around and the back he smoothed his hands over and the body he thrust into weren’t those of a stranger.

John pushed his chair back, dropped his plate and coffee mug into the sink, cutting off the useless cycle of thoughts. He went to the bedroom to get dressed. He pulled on his clothes, stood by the dresser buttoning his cuffs. His eyes fell to the dish that held errant coins, buttons, receipts, and one key.

He gazed at it. He really should give it back to Mrs. Hudson. He ought to stop by for a cuppa, ask about her hip, at least phone her… He’d meant to drop by, but never quite got around to it. In fact, he avoided that section of town, hadn’t been on that street since the day he moved out.

He touched the cold metal of the key with a fingertip, ran it along the jagged edge. No, he couldn’t quite part with it, the last link to the brief but brightest part of his life that had flared intensely and flamed out all too soon.

John closed his eyes, stood still. He needed to change. It had been nearly a year and a half. He couldn’t undo that day. He had to accept it and move on. He would do it, he was working at it, finding a new course, but some small stubborn part of himself refused to give up, insisted on remaining enraged, burning, a beacon for an impossible miracle.

He pulled on his jacket, hitched his bag over his shoulder, stepped out onto the pavement, planning to take a long walk to finish clearing the fog from his head before work. He lifted his eyes, catching a glimpse of a bird sweeping by in a majestic loop, its black wings shimmering against the blue sky.

**Author's Note:**

> See part 1 for Sherlock's POV.


End file.
